At first I grew frustrated but, with no appointed time for my unannounced visit to the constable’s office, I began to view my lack of direction differently. Like the common room before, I was simply gaining a sense of the place and its people. I made my way down prosperous streets where the houses boasted well-kept front gardens, edged paths, and an air of privacy to their curtained windows and smoking chimneys. But only a street away there were no curtains, no smoke, and in places no glass in the windows at all. These homes radiated a sadness from their very brickwork.

I was struck by the proximity and seemingly random distribution of such different natured homes. In Esteberg there was a definite system, areas clear to see on any map that had borders as secure and as guarded as any country. Such a map of Drekenford would be a mess of lines and no use to anyone.

Eventually I came to my destination: a thick door, ajar, and under the light of a lamp. I closed the door behind me as I entered, and paused in the small stone-floored hallway for the worst of my own dripping to subside. Ahead was a desk, behind which was a man a good few years older than I. He was busily scribbling in a ledger of some kind, leaning so close to the page that he didn’t notice my approach. In the weak glow of his single candle I could make out two holding cells behind, which I took to be empty, but couldn’t be sure.

I gave a small cough, startling the man.

‘I would like to see the constable,’ I said.

‘Done something wrong?’ he said, peering at me through heavy spectacles.

‘No, I—’

‘Seen someone doin’ something wrong?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘And what manner would that be?’ he said.

‘That’s for the constable to hear,’ I said, beginning to lose my patience.

‘Well, you can tell me. Or you can ride a day in most directions and find someone else to tell.’

I looked down at the thin man, dressed plainly but smartly and with no trace of ink on his fingers. ‘You’re the constable.’

‘And town historian,’ he said.

‘Is there much overlap between the two?’

‘Of course!’ he said, surprised at my question. ‘What could be more important to the history of a town than its misdemeanours?’

‘Is everyone in Drekenford recording something?’ I muttered.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You oversaw the arrest and transfer of Jan and Gregory Harsson.’

The constable leaned back in his chair, it now being his turn to take the measure of me. ‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s time you told me who you are, sir.’

By way of answer I put my badge down on the desk, pleased at the heavy thud and its echoes. But this was not a man easily cowed. He picked up the badge as a bird might a twig, turning it this way and that as if deciding whether it was worthy of a place in its nest.